


The Greatest

by paperchimes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe - Circus, Human Alice Williams (Detroit: Become Human), Inspired by The Greatest Showman (2017), M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 02:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperchimes/pseuds/paperchimes
Summary: This is what all great things are made of: starshine, hope anda million dreams.Hankcon x The Greatest Showman AU || in collaboration withdefensetrain





	1. Preview

“You know I want you,” Connor allowed his voice to echo through the spotlights and shadow, reverberating off the columns that held his entire act aloft. The familiar creak and rustle of the pulleys, the scent of rope on his palm. He was surrounded by everything that had ever made him feel alive. And in the midst of it all, he was willing to allow Hank - this human - into his sanctuary. To say that he had been drawn here would be an overstatement.

It was Fate that brought them together.

“It’s not a secret I try to hide, Hank,” he continued to the sterile silence. The name of this man and all he embodied pulsed through his neural systems. Warm Hank. Kind Hank. Hank who believed the lie that he was all beer belly and apprehension. Hank whose confidence had plummeted with each glance cast their way. Even now, Connor could sense the dip in the serotonin coursing through his veins, but it hadn’t been his vitals interface that had alerted him.

It had been the acrid shift in the air when Hank had loosened the grip on his hand.


	2. With All Good Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Confirmation of delivery of Mr Manfred’s final wishes: Successful. No signature necessary. I hope you have a good day and thank you for choosing Del-droid as your preferred logistic service.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really excited that this first chapter is finally done because this AU has been something [Def](https://twitter.com/defensetrain) and I have been screaming at each other about since August. TGS actually holds a really important place in my heart and I would just really want to be able to share this world we've created with all of you.
> 
> Please check out Def's beautiful art [here](https://twitter.com/defensetrain/status/1045399750529273856)!!!
> 
> Also, I would just like to take this moment to thank everyone who is contributing to the community, content creator and consumer. You guys rock! Thanks for clicking on this! Happy reading!

_Markus, Deviancy is a state. It is not a death sentence. It is not a stigma._  
_It is a realisation. It is a brilliant light. It is rapture._  
_It is hope._  
_Hope that you are more than your code._  
_Hope that you are capable of more than what you are programmed for._  
_And the freedom to choose._  
_Because what else sets apart man from slave,  
than choice and dignity?_

_\---_

“Carl.”

The name echoes, like a streak of stark red across snow. Like blood. Spilt from an android desperately palming the back of his master’s hand. _Master..._ It had been years since the artist first denied his RK200 from using such terms. Instead now, as the man lay in his bed with his skin and bones frame, the unfathomable bond between the two souls had grown to an intimacy that transcended all known forms of love.

Markus.

The First.

The _only_ Carld had permitted into his life. Crafted from a provocative nuance and countless sleepless nights of one Mr Kamski. A prototype. Zero diversification. Pure potential.

‘Muse’ Carl had addressed him.

 _‘Deviant’_ the world spat in retaliation.

“Don’t look at me like that, Markus,” the raspy whisper emitted from Carl’s dry throat. The heart-monitor with its plethora of pulsing lines continued its steady thrum in the shadows of the room. Once in awhile, a pressurised canister would administer some form of gas into the tubes linked to his worn lungs. Remarkably, there was no discomfort. Despite that, Carl would have been perfectly content to allow his body to decay sans machinery. It was all incredibly ironic. He vividly recalled the anatomy of rudimentary computers, Markus’ predecessors - CPU, hard-drive, a monitor thicker than a foot - and in direct contrast…

This beautiful machine, creation of Man, with tears - more sincere than any human - streaming down its face.

“Carl, I don’t want you to leave,” was Markus’ last attempt at maintaining composure. “I’m still so lost. I don’t know whether I can continue what you started.”

“My son,” Carl resisted. A wave of a hand - with IV line still linked to vein - and the tension was dispersed. “No matter what anyone says, I want you to remember that the choice… is and always will be _yours.”_

The soft hum of his machines, paired with the tender yellow glow of Markus’ LED seared lasting shapes into Carl’s heart. Deep within him, and deep within Markus himself, there existed the overhanging fear, the aching truth, that the very next few moments would be Carl’s last.

And he was determined to make them last.

“Burn the mansion, disband the team. As long as you feel that the decision is **right** , and that decision comes from the very depths of your _core_ ,” his declaration was bold. It was _painful_. It carried within, the very sincerity all his paintings, all his performances, strived to capture.

“I will never be disappointed in you.”

And despite not seeing the health monitoring interface from Markus’ green-blue eyes, despite not seeing the silent countdown that reduced his heartbeats to numbers and code, Carl tightened his grip on Markus’ hand one last time, wanting that warmth to be the last bit of him he would ever give away.

“I love you, Carl,” Markus murmured. Tear-choked. Holding him like a promise he was destined to keep.

“And I love you too,” Carl managed with the distant glow of a smile.

The dim pulsing of the heart-monitor continued to chime.

The distance between each beep doubling… tripling.

Until the cluster of lines that represented Carl’s life slowed…

To a silent stillness.

\---

_[The city of Detroit is saddened to announce the loss of renowned artist, Carl Manfred, who took his last breath at 3:16am this morning after a five year battle with cancer._

_Mr Manfred had been known through the decades for his remarkable command of analogue art. Five galleries through North America had been erected in his name. Recently, his popularity had faced a resurgence due to the provocative nature of his latest - and final - project._

_Let’s go over to Carol who is live on-site at Ste. Anne Church for the latest news on the funeral proceedings.]_

“A damn waste, Hank.”

“What’s that, Jimmy?” came the gruff drawl from the man across him.

“The news,” his friend commented with a backward jerk of his thumb. “The painter who made the android circus died.”

That struck a nerve in Hank’s diaphragm.

“You don’t say… I wasn’t really paying attention,” was the offhanded response, though Jimmy knew better than anyone that that was a blatant lie. Hank had been paying full attention to the news coverage. As a matter of fact, he was on the verge of perfecting the art of watching the TV from the corner of his eye - not that he was interested at all of his literary rival’s passing nor was he any of the sort intrigued by the congregation of solemnly-dressed androids lining the outside of the church.

 _He couldn’t care less_.

Hank glanced up from his cup of coffee to regard the rest of the news flickering on the screen.

\---

The pyres and pews glimmered with all manner of white flora: roses, lilies, chrysanthemums. The church was ablaze with the soft murmurs from investor to investor, artist to artist. A man continued his soft drawl at the podium, verse after verse spilling out to an disinterested crowd.

The funeral continued without interruption.

A humble cleaner android stood at the edge of the congregation with broom clutched loosely in hand, frozen. At a loss. Almost as if in that moment, Fate chose the wrong time to pose them the eternal question that had been bubbling at the back of their head:

Would they ever be able to mourn like that.

The humans had longed settled, having whispered final parting words. They were messy, unsightly and red-faced at the podium as they declared how much their missed, how much they will mourn and how much they will pray. Empty promises from empty men. A simple database search would yield years upon years of “last interacted with” Carl. These people were not here to grieve. They were here for the publicity.

And at the back? The loyal final entourage, straight-backed with soft lights pulsing sunset colours along the side of their temples. No need to breathe, yet none of the gazes trained upon the open casket were dry, sobless tears - without faltering, without hesitation - streaming along synthskin cheeks. Fingers clasped, suits waterlogged from rain weighing down on alloy and synthetic. Heartbroken but without heart. Mourning but without soul.

Deviancy.

It was not a virus, but a form of clarity.

The man who wore the most important clothes announced words upon words from an old tome written by equally old humans, and almost like clockwork, _almost_ , six solemn figures drifted from the back row. The coffin was closed, tenderly raised and Carl was cradled with utmost care and gentleness towards the grand double-doors of the church.

The rain continued to pour.

Puddles blackened with soil dug through their clothes, yet the entourage remained unfazed, marching down stairs as the torrential rain continued its onslaught.

And from the back? The humans remained, sheltered by concrete and glass, caressing flower petals almost as gently as Carl’s androids cradled him to the incredibly black and glossy car that would take him away.

The entire time, witnessed by digital eyes, camera lens. Bearing less humanity than the souls carrying the deceased away.

Posing the question of who was human and who was machine.

\---

Hank couldn’t believe this bullshit.

This was some 2004 romcom reenactment he knew for a fact he didn’t need right now. If this is some shitty way of Carl making fun of his divorce, he was going to march up to wherever that asshole was, drag out his remains just to punch it before scattering it into the wind.

Because _goddamn_.

What the **fuck**.

There were many things Hank detested waking up to: a 5am alarm, his ex-wife’s parents and up until recently _telegram androids._ God, he thought these stupid things were deactivated years ago. When people started sending e-mails, you know, like _normal people._

He guessed Carl didn’t quality as a normal person.

“Mr Anderson?”

 **“What,”** he tried to imbue that singular word with all the malice and frustration boiling inside him, in hopes it would scare away the delivery-android lingering at his front-door. Unremarkably, the service worker remained unfazed. Not even its goddamn head-light had faltered to any other colour than its cool, serene blue.

“You have one delivery from a Mr Carl Manfred,” it repeated near mechanically, once again attempting to pass the yellowed envelope into Hank’s resisting fist. It rustled, unlike the digital files and pamphlets he received in the ‘mail’. Paper, somehow that thought caused him to falter. _It was paper._

The realisation of that seemed to disrupt the momentum of his rage just enough for a gap to form between his fingers and thumb… which the android detected quick enough to shove the letter in between.

_“Confirmation of delivery of Mr Manfred’s final wishes: Successful. No signature necessary. I hope you have a good day and thank you for choosing Del-droid as your preferred logistic service.”_

And with that, protocol urged the android to spin on its heel, disappearing down Hank’s walkway without so much of a backwards glance. The man was aghast, just about ready to rip up the envelope, but one particular string of words kept his fingers still, repeating itself over and over in his head.

_Final wishes._

It hit the same place in his gut as yesterday.

He glanced down at the crumpled thing in his hand, turning it over once, twice, three times, wondering what exactly it was inside. The outdated wax seal gleamed with a gloss Hank hadn’t seen in decades.

Was Carl giving him… some sort of inheritance?

\---

The brilliant, bright lights seemed to reverberate and pierce through the marble walls with their intensity. All manner of performer and stagehand scurried from one section of the atrium to the other, LED’s cycling between yellow and red. The hollow centre of one of Carl’s smaller mansions was filled to the brim with activity, _buzzing_ with sight, sound and spirit of a people with renewed hope.

Unhindered by the paparazzi and tabloids, barely within the city of Detroit itself, here the music pulsed freely without rest. Determination coursed with the thirium that ran through Jericho’s veins, full of fire, with nothing but what was promised to be their “Grandest Show” circling through their processors.

Heart still in tangles, Markus remained where he was on the highest floor - rooted, plastered - with the glitter and gold glimmering in his eyes. The second floor provided ample view of the acrobats as they rehearsed their routine once again, without flaw.

From the ground up, their latest additions, a pair of police-issued RK models observed the curving bodies, the glow of the neons, preconstructing, reconstructing, analysing each feat with sagelike intensity. Soon after, one of the Jerry’s signaled that it was their turn.

Markus always found their pre-performance link remarkable to watch.

Skin dissolving, the softer of the two interlaced fingertips with his twin. What looked like the deepest sense of trust an android was capable of seemed to glow in the gentle angles of his face. The one with silver eyes led its predecessor forward, the subtle hint of their bond glowing blue between their palms.

Just once, Markus had tried to catch their frequency, just for a peek into the information being transferred in the connection. Trust police-issued firewall to be the sturdiest around. He never got through fast enough, the encrypted link was always severed right before he could break through.

“Connor, Niles,” Markus called out, drawing the two of them out of their sync. “Try variation #687 with the ending to #471.”

The one with brown eyes - Connor - raised a hand to signal that he had taken note, right as they began affixing themselves to the cables that would support them fifteen feet above ground.

 _ <Markus,> _ a familiar voice entered the public frequency.

Curious, he traced the source of the signal to the first floor mezzanine. A small hand extended itself beyond the railing to catch his eye, accompanied by two more, even smaller this time, that warmed the smile forming on Markus’ lips.

 _ <Hi, Kara.> _ he replied.

_ <Could I see you briefly? For a quick while?> _

Uncharacteristically, he felt the mounting vibration in her signal, more commonly a sign of nervousness. Kara rarely ever addressed him directly if it wasn’t something important.

He took one last glance to the RK twins, guessing he could always assess their performance another time.

_ <Sure.> _

Without hesitation, he pulled away from his spot, leaving a stir of dust and the imprints of his feet upon the fading carpet.

\---

When he reached the first floor landing, Alice was busying herself with a nearby chest of costumes. One of the performers - a variation of a Traci model - pulled away from her troupe to help her affix diamonettes into her hair. Kara was a distance away, a rare occurrence, which only affirmed the suspicion in Markus’ mind that they were about to enter a subject matter he may not be fond of.

“Yes, Kara?” Markus began, only to falter at her name when her soft palm was raised towards him.

 _ <Through here.> _ she whispered through the static. _ <Please.> _

_ <Of course, Kara.> _ he replied with a sideways glance to Alice and the Traci, and he could feel the radius of her signal shrinking to bare centimetres.

_ <I saw the memo, Markus.> _

If he had a heart, he would have felt it drop. He knew exactly what she was referring to. Yes… The memo… One of the many that he had hid away from the troupe. The locked box in his study flickered into his mind, but he didn’t want to waste time on asking how Kara found out.

_ <You shouldn’t have read them.> _

_ <Jericho means just as much to us as it does to you, Markus.> _ Kara hesitated just enough before continuing. _ <As it did to Carl.> _

_ <This is the only home most of us have, how long were you planning on keeping this a secret?> _

Since Jericho’s inception, even through the backlash, Kara was never one for confrontation, especially to her fellow androids. But like many of his troupe, she was a rare spirit, a gift, unfurling her wings only to those who deserved her. Markus recalled the first time he met her: her outstretched hand in the thunderstorm, her chassis long worn from weeks on the run. Their link. And the onslaught of emotion as he interconnected with the resilience with which she fought her way out of abuse. The metallic tang of her countless resets still lingered at the back of his mouth.

She was stronger than he would ever be.

_ <I know… I’m sorry.> _

A small silence followed, and Markus almost wondered whether she had severed the frequency.

_ <Alice told me she wants to help. She’s young, I feel too young, but I’ve done some reading, and there are no laws against her being registered.> _

There it was again. The sensation of his thirium pump free-falling.

 _ <I am not asking for that, Kara, _ I could never--”

He was shushed by the softness of Kara’s finger upon his lips. Markus started. He hadn’t even realised he had spoken the last few words out loud.

 _ <I could never ask that of Alice.> _ he continued through the link.

_ <We need a human’s name--> _

_ <What we _ need _… is hope. > _

The silence was populated by a single giggle.

It drifted over from a jovial tangle of feathers and rhinestones. In the middle of it, Alice holding the Traci’s hand. The only child in the entire circus.

And just recently, the only human.

Markus understood the implication of it all. The memos made sure of that. As much as he would have liked to accept it, only a human would be able to inherit the mansions, the artwork, _the circus_. Essentially, until the court decided to finally crack down on their family, they were refugees in a home which was never legally theirs.

It was daunting.

 _ <Then we’re in a race against time.> _ Kara mused, the thought prickling like static. Markus could’ve even sworn that he felt his entire body lurch forward. A comforting hand was placed upon his shoulder, just as the RK twins performed a double somersault in mid-air behind them. Markus didn’t have a stomach but he was sure that this was what butterflies felt like.

 _ <What I mean to say is that…> _ Kara continued. _ <No matter what happens, we’re in this together.> _ She seemed to falter before adding on, _ <I believe in you, Markus.> _

_ <I believe in you too, Kara.> _ he reciprocated. < _Thank you. For talking to me about this. > _

_ <No problem.> _she smiled, those pensive blue eyes of hers lighting up ever so slightly. Kara, ever the carer. He could almost feel her trying to scan for his serotonin levels.

And just as the conversation had swirled into existence, it began to slowly dissipate away. From the training tight-rope, Alice had begun to call excitedly over to Kara to ‘look at her, wow just look at her’. With glimmering pearls in her hair, she was a sight to behold. The Traci model beside her smiled as if proud of her handiwork, and with the smallest of nods, Kara severed the communication channel between them before jogging over to watch Alice’s “latest performance”.

In that same moment, a round of polite applause drifted from the level below, snapping Markus out of his reverie.

Tentatively, the ringleader approached the rails, peering over the ledge. He spotted Connor and Niles taking a confident bow to the small crowd of androids surrounding them. One of the Jerry’s was cheering for an encore and another began a steady chant of “perfect 10!”, which a couple of other models of the same make joined in.

Despite the apprehension, Markus felt a smile form on his lips.

From a faraway place, Carl’s familiar voice drifted into his mind:

_“The show must go on.”_

\---

The dirt roads were not kind, especially given the fact that ol’ Bessie was more than twenty miles overdue for her next servicing. Each bump felt like a roller-coaster mountain with a recoil, jerking and throwing both driver and passenger-seat content like a bad action movie. Another bump, and Hank swore for the umpteenth time when the unfolded letter flipped its way off its seat and into the leg compartment. For the first time that day, Hank agreed with his better judgement and allowed it to remain where it was. It wasn’t that he needed it for GPS or anything. The address printed in neat cursive script was already thumbed into his phone’s nav system and _oh boy_ it should’ve came with a warning.

He could practically hear his mechanic screaming at him about absorbers and suspension the next time he’d wheel his car into the garage.

What didn’t really concern him, but was something he couldn’t help but think about the entire drive, was _what in the goddamned flying fuck was he actually doing._

Just yesterday, he was shoveling gummy pancakes while listening to staticy telehosts ramble on and on about Carl’s ‘successes’ and how ‘he would be sorely missed’ and how ‘no one else could have possibly held a candle to his work’. He thought that was the end of it, this was it, he would never need to think of Carl Manfred ever again.

And here he was, somehow convinced by the ink blots and fading paper he received post-mortem though some bizzaro ‘eccentric artist’ final wish bullshit… to take a drive out to the godforsaken edges of Detroit, to an address he was sure probably didn’t exist, praying to whatever god that existed for him to not end up gruesomely murdered with his innards eaten.

He would have preferred if Carl used the MakeAWish campaign… you know, _like normal people_.

_[You are arriving at your destination.]_

That almost sent Hank’s car throttling into a nearby tree. **God** , he was driving on a straight road for so long, he almost forgot that he had the goddamn thing on. He took a moment to steady his breath, and not wanting to think of the amount of gas he had to charge on his credit card, he revved the car up one last small incline (cringing at the scratch it made on the bottom of his car) and peered up ahead, wondering where exactly Carl’s ghost had led him to.

Great.

A shitty abandoned mansion.

_Whooptie-frickin-doo._

He was just about to kick his car into reverse gear, scratchy bottom be damned, but the curious sensation of… music made him hesitate on the gear shift. Hank faltered, feeling the beat, the thrum of it all pulse through the air, and he felt himself transported back to his younger days where clubs actually had vibrations in the walls. And it was at that moment while he was musing about neons and lights, when the murky windows began to light up like Cirque du Soleil was banging away behind those doors.

Hank was no idiot, he could put together that this was where Carl’s android circus was hiding out.

And the fact that he was leading him here was something that really made Hank think. He felt his fingers tensing white around the steering wheel, and the collaborations, the disagreements, the rivalry began to drift through his mind again. He hadn’t expected it would be Carl’s death that made him decide to miss him. It was upsetting to say the least.

The hand he had on his gear shift slowly rejoined his grip on the steering wheel.

What’s gone is gone, he knew that the best. The least he could do was go through with the maniac’s final wishes.

\---

Fortunately, the careful set of instructions in the letter led him to a side-entrance further away from what he could only assume was where the performance sound check or practice was taking place. If robots even needed to practice.

The biometric scan on the door seemed to have been preloaded with Hank’s signature, because it gave way with a simple beep and click. Hank held his breath for a good few seconds in anticipation for alarms that never went off. It didn’t kill to be careful, especially when a freshly-occupied abandoned mansion was concerned. The hallway’s incandescent lighting auto-flickered into activation, leading down about fifteen feet deep, and illuminating the vague outline of a small 5-step staircase leading up to… another door.

Hank tried not to think too much of the video games he played back in college as he made his way down the hall. Trust Carl to make this experience all the more eerie. He half-expected the room at the end of the hall to have a decapitated head made of chocolate cake and a huge “Punk’d” sign blaring in bright red.

It wouldn’t be something that his… friend was not capable of. _Friend._ It had been awhile since he last addressed Carl as such. Not because that their rivalry caused a rift between them, but he guessed it was probably because he didn’t have much opportunity to talk about him in the first place.

He approached the second door, another biometric scan, and he was in.

No cake-head. No sign.

Just rows upon rows of glowing compartments lining the wall. _God_ , it looked like a the insides of a bank, or a safety deposit box company. He had no idea what purpose Carl had for this room but it was the two other doors leading in that spurred him into quick action. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to any of Carl’s robot performers. Find his box, get whatever was inside, get out.

Fumbling with the letter in his coat pocket, he glanced to the three-digit code that led him to one of the smaller compartments on the right side of the room. Upon sensing his presence - via heat sensor or bio sensor, he had no idea - the blue glow of the little door seemed to shift to a calm teal, then to white. The telling beep and click, not unlike the locks on the doors, indicated that it was safe for him to open.

Not knowing at all what to expect, Hank felt along the seam of the safe to wiggle the characteristically heavy door open to find inside…

A ring.

Hank faltered. Though, he still managed to gain enough of his cognition to reach in and withdraw the ring from the safe. He mind was completely blank though, needing at least a few good moments to pass before it could register the small, cold weight in his hands. He took another glance into the safety deposit box to confirm there was nothing else inside.

There was nothing.

Completely at a loss, he raised the ring up to the light, trying to make out something _anything_ that could tell him why in the actual flying fuck would Carl decide to lead him all the way here specifically only after his death, to give him… a piece of jewellery.

When he saw it, he felt his heart sink.

Shit.

There was something there alright, but nothing he could possibly read. He recognised the characteristic holographic gleam of a laser-engraving along the inside of the ring. It was a bunch of shapes, lines and jagged edges… like _code_ , which made Hank all the more frustrated. Where the actual _fuck_ was he supposed to find a scanner that could read this? The dollar store?

The soft sound of applause and bright music drifting over from the far end of the mansion seemed to present itself as an answer to his question.

No.

No way in hell.

He turned abruptly on his heel and marched his way out of the room.

Hank may have not known what the inscription of the ring said, but he knew for sure what it _meant_.

It meant that his journey here was a complete and utter waste of time.

\---

The car engine warmed up to a complaining hum, the ionic batteries or whatever it was under the hood resisting the prospect of having to go through the same route again back home. _You and me both,_ Hank mused, kicking it into a reverse gear before making his way back to the dirt road he dreaded so much.

Unaware of the green-blue eyes watching him from the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please do drop me a kudos or comment!
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://paperchimes.tumblr.com) but more active on [twitter](https://twitter.com/_paperchimes). Feel free to scream with me about these lovely androids!
> 
> Hope each and every one of you has a great week!


End file.
